Family members would regularly find Mia anywhere but her own bed, out-of-sorts and a bit undone when woken from her somnambulist treks.
One morning, I woke to find her tucked snugly beside me in my twin bed, with most of the covers and most of the space. When I tapped her on the shoulder, she rolled over (our noses nearly touching), blinked, and groaned, "Anne, what are you doing here?"
"Look around you, Oh Sleepwalking One."
She did just that.
Then, taking the remainder of the covers with her, she rolled over and gave a swift backward kick that left me on the floor, bewildered but a little in awe.
I never knew when or what to expect from Mia’s nocturnal wanderings.
Returning home late one night, I noticed that the light was still on in the den. "Crap," I mumbled into the open fridge, as I began to formulate one-word responses to Dad’s inevitable interrogation. With munchies in hand and alibis at the tip of my tongue, I opened the door to the den, only to find Mia on the pumpkin orange sofa, sitting up and staring at the paneled wall ahead.
"Hey."
No reply.
"Meem, it's late. Coming up to bed?"
Nothing.
Not even a blink.
So, I shrugged and turned for the stairs.
"Where's my friend?” I heard from behind me and turning around, I asked, ”What friend?"
"My FRIEND!" she replied indignantly.
"What friend, Mia? I don't who you're talking about."
"My FRIEND!" she repeated for the third time.
"Look, maybe if I knew what friend you're talking ab-"
"Shut up, Anne."
"All-righty, then," I said as I headed to bed.
Passing the boy's room upstairs, I noticed that the television was blaring and Mark was still lying on the sofa, face down, with a cat on his shirtless back and a dog at his feet. I turned the T.V. off and gently tapped him on the shoulder.
"Kid, you should head to bed," I said softly and then started for my own.
Mark raised his head suddenly and called out, "Anne-Anne-Anne... Would-you, would-you, would-you…open-the-open-the-open-the-open-the-“, then nothing. He simply collapsed back onto his belly and into his dreams.
“Open the WHAT?" I pleaded internally, fearing that if I turned around I’d likely see Rod Serling, cigarette in hand, furrowing his thick, dark eyebrows as he begins to explain the strange tale of the my sudden plunge into madness.
“I’m way too stoned,” I thought as I headed to the comfort of my room.
Before I got there, however, I noticed the lights on in Mia's bedroom and decided to investigate. (Damn you, Rod Serling.) I found Mia sitting on her bed, doused in light, with a drawing pad in her lap and a peculiar look on her face.
What I found even more disconcerting was how quickly and stealthily she’d made her way from the den to her bedroom (up the creaky stairs and down the equally creaky hallway, just feet from where I was in the boys’ room) without my noticing or, at least, hearing her pass. The feeling made me glance out of the corner of my eyes to the mirror above Mia's desk, where I found instant comfort in seeing both our reflections and enough courage to ask Mia about her missing friend.
She looked up in response, but said nothing.
“Your friend," I pressed. "The one you were looking for earlier?"
She scrunched her face and tilted her head, slightly. "Where's my pink purse?" were the next words out of her mouth.
I didn’t know how to respond.
We just glared at one another.
“What?”
"My pink purse!" she repeated unhappily.
"Okay...so... now you’re looking for a friend whose name you don't know and a purse that's pink. Am I getting this right?"
"Shut up, Anne.” was all Mia had to say and all I could take for one night.
The following morning, both she and Mark denied any knowledge of the previous night’s events. But I knew the truth. Especially about Mia.
I shared the same room with her for years. I observed her patterns and habits, her strengths and weaknesses, the complex relationship Mia had with the Night. She was a creature of it - active and creative.
She stayed awake well into it (later than most in the house), yet also seemed determined to shun it with the use of every light available. And when Night finally acquiesced to Sleep, it did so half-heartedly with Mia, often leaving her restless and wandering between this world and slumber’s.
Rare was the night she’d get into bed before me.
Rarer, though, was my not being a reluctant participant in her nightly ritual.
With the rest of the house long dark and quiet, it began.
"CLICK."
On went the stair lights at the other end of the house and then, footsteps - Mia's - coming up the carpet-less, wooden staircase. Her movement, quick and cautious. Around the corner she’d skitter, to the main hall and-
"CLICK."
Her target, two doors down on the left, is illuminated. Muffled by a thick, carpet runner, I knew Mia reached our door only when light returned to our brightly patterned wallpaper setting its floor to ceiling, yellow, orange, pink and lilac flowers aglow. Mia would then make as much noise as possible (slamming drawers and sliding closet doors, flushing the toilet in the adjacent bathroom, testing her alarm clock, etc.) before climbing beneath her covers.
Leaving every light on her path from family room to bedroom, burning bright.
Just as dependable as this, was the dialogue which followed.
“Mia, turn off the lights.”
"You turn them off.”
“You were the last one in bed! AND YOU were the one who turned them on in the first place!"
“So?”
“So? So, it’s only fair that you turn them off.”
"No."
"Dang it, Mia, you know I can't sleep with the lights on!"
Well stashed below her covers, all I could do was imagine the incredibly smug look on her face.
"Too bad," would come her muffled reply. "I can sleep just fine with them on.”
I'd claim to be able to do the same, but in less than a minute, with the bedroom lights searing wholes through my eyelids, I'd climb from bed and shuffle just outside our door.
“CLICK. CLICK."
Off the hall and staircase lights would go.
"CLICK."
Off our bedroom lights would go.
“Brat,” I’d call through the dark as I felt my way back to my bed at the other end of the room.
It went on like this for years.
Then Chris was off to college and Mia was given her own room. I couldn't wait. Not only because I was anxious to have my independence, but even more, I was anxious to see how Mia would handle hers. But she kept delaying the move, bringing her things into her new bedroom one article at a time, over days, then weeks.
I offered to help.
She'd get offended and disappear.
Mom finally had to intervene. Begrudgingly, Mia threw the last of her belongings into the heap in the center of her new bedroom and faced sleeping on her own for the first time in her life.
I lay in my darkened room that night and waited for the familiar sounds of Mia making her way to bed, speculating over and over again how she would handle the lights with no one in the next bed to do it for her.
Would she leave them on all night?
Doubtful. Dad had a sixth sense about these things and would be demanding "Lights out!" before long.
Will she have the gall to call through the walls for me to do it?
She wouldn’t dare....Or would she?
Had Mia given this anywhere near as much thought as me?
Then, "CLICK."
On went the back staircase lights.
“Creak”, went the steps.
"CLICK."
On went the hallway lights.
"CLICK."
On went Mia's bedroom lights.
I listened carefully, tracking her footsteps, picturing her every move, anticipating her thoughts.
“CLICK. CLICK."
Off went the stair and hall lights from below, as Mom called “Sweet dreams." and Dad warned “Don't let the bedbugs bite.”
Minutes later, there was only one light left on in the entire house.
“Come on, Mia,” I whispered into my pillow.
Then it happened.
"CLICK."
Off went the light.
"Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter-grumpf-creakity-creak-creak-cree.”
And that’s the way it would be from that day forward.
Night after night.
It was a sound that no matter how familiar it became, never failed to bring a smile to my face.
I can still hear it now.
“CLICK.”
“Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter-grumpf-creakity-creak-creak-cree."
Mia running to bed, racing the dark, chasing the night.
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